The final bell of the term rang through Yamato High like a funeral knell. Saeyama, fifty-eight, balding, pot-bellied, and infamous for "accidentally" dropping chalk in front of short-skirted girls, was cleaning out his desk. Retirement tomorrow. No more stolen glimpses of cotton panties stretched over teenage thighs. He sighed, already mourning the view.
That was when he heard the commotion in the hallway.
Three third-year boys had cornered the Aizawa twins—Yumi and Yuki—against the lockers. Identical, delicate, with long black hair and frightened doe eyes. Their uniforms were rumpled, one blouse half-unbuttoned, tears streaking their cheeks.
"Say it again, freaks," the leader snarled. "Say you'll send us nudes or we'll tell everyone you're lezzie incest whores."
Saeyama's heart thudded—not from justice, but opportunity. Two trembling girls, identical bodies, identical terror. His cock stirred like it hadn't in years.
"Enough," he barked, voice gravelly with authority. The boys froze. Even bullies feared a teacher who'd once made a student cry for three days straight over a rumored upskirt photo. "Get out. Or I report all three of you for sexual harassment. Permanently."
They scattered.
The twins stared up at him, shaking. Yumi's lip trembled. "Th-thank you, Saeyama-sensei…"
Yuki clutched her sister's hand. "We… we don't know how to repay you."
Saeyama's smile was grandfatherly on the surface, wolfish underneath. "Repay me? Nonsense. Though…" He let his gaze drift downward, lingering where their skirts had ridden up from the scuffle. Pale thighs, faint outline of white panties. "A little gratitude wouldn't hurt. Something only pretty girls like you could give an old man on his last day."
The twins flushed crimson, understanding instantly. They'd heard the rumors about him. Everyone had.
Yumi swallowed. "If… if that's what you want, sensei… we owe you."
Ten minutes later, the classroom door was locked, blinds drawn. The late afternoon sun painted golden stripes across their skin as Saeyama sat on his desk like a king.
"Skirts up first," he said hoarsely. "Let me see what I saved."
Trembling, they obeyed. Two identical white cotton panties, damp at the gusset from fear or something else. Saeyama groaned, palming his erection through his slacks.
"Beautiful… now off."
The fabric whispered down slender legs. Two bare, hairless mounds, pink and perfect. He stood, unzipping with shaking hands. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, ridiculous on his aging body, but rigid as steel.
Yumi whimpered. Yuki bit her lip, eyes wide.
Saeyama stepped between them, guiding Yuki to bend over the teacher's desk, Yumi to sit on it, legs spread. "Today I'm going to heal you," he murmured, voice syrupy with fake kindness. "Those boys hurt you here—" he cupped their mounds gently, then not gently, "—but sensei's cock is medicine. It erases trauma. Makes everything warm and safe again. You want to feel safe, don't you?"
They nodded, desperate, tears still falling.
He started with Yuki.
One slow thrust into her impossibly tight heat. She cried out, fingers scrabbling at the desk. Saeyama groaned like a dying animal, hands gripping her tiny waist.
"Shh… feel it healing you…" He pulled back, slammed in again. Her body jerked. Yumi watched, thighs trembling, as her sister's face twisted from pain to something confused and soft.
He switched. Yumi next, legs over his shoulders, folding her nearly in half. She was even tighter, gasping his name—sensei, sensei—like a prayer. He fucked them in turns, back and forth, sweat dripping from his brow onto their uniforms.
"See?" he panted, hilting deep in Yuki while fingering Yumi's clit in slow circles. "No more tears. Just pleasure. Trauma's gone… all gone…"
The twins clung to each other, kissing through their moans, identical bodies rocking under his. When he finally spent himself—first in Yuki, then pulling out to paint Yumi's stomach in thick ropes—they were limp, flushed, eyes glassy.
Saeyama tucked himself away, zipping up with satisfaction.
"Remember," he said, patting their heads like a benevolent uncle. "Sensei fixed you. If the nightmares come back… my door's always open. Even after retirement."
The twins, skirts still rumpled, panties lost somewhere on the floor, nodded meekly.
"Thank you… for healing us," they whispered in unison.
Saeyama smiled, already planning tomorrow's visit to their apartment.
Some retirements, he thought, were just the beginning.
The Aizawa apartment was on the fourth floor of a drab building that smelled of miso and mildew. Saeyama climbed the stairs slowly, a plastic convenience-store bag swinging from his wrist: melon soda, strawberry Pocky, and a box of extra-thin condoms he didn't intend to use.
He knocked twice.
The door cracked open. Yuki's wide eyes peered out, then widened further when she saw who it was.
"S-Sensei…?"
"Evening," he said cheerfully, as if dropping by former students was perfectly normal. "You forgot these yesterday." He lifted the bag containing their crumpled panties, laundered and folded with creepy care. "And I was worried. Trauma can come back at night, you know."
Yumi appeared behind her sister, hair damp from a bath, both of them wearing only oversized t-shirts that barely reached mid-thigh. No parents home; their mother worked nights at a pachinko parlor.
"Come in," Yumi whispered, stepping aside.
The living room was tiny. One low table, one sagging couch, a TV flickering with some idol show on mute. Saeyama made himself at home immediately, sitting cross-legged and patting the cushions on either side.
"Sit. Let sensei check if the healing held."
They obeyed, knees touching his. The shirts rode higher. No panties underneath; he could tell by the way the fabric clung.
Yuki's voice was small. "We… we tried to sleep last night, but we kept remembering those boys. It hurt again."
Saeyama's heart (and cock) leapt. "Exactly why I came. Medicine needs regular doses."
He pulled them onto his lap like dolls, one on each thigh. The twins were feather-light. His hands slid under the shirts, cupping bare asses, then higher to small breasts that fit perfectly in his palms.
"Today," he murmured, "we'll do it together. So you'll never be scared apart again."
He laid them side-by-side on the tatami, heads on the same pillow, identical faces turned toward each other. Then he knelt between four slender legs, pushing the shirts up to their necks.
Two glistening slits, still slightly swollen from yesterday. He licked Yuki first, slow and deliberate, while sliding two fingers into Yumi. They gasped in unison, hands finding each other's.
"Sensei's tongue is medicine too," he said against Yuki's clit. "Swallow it down."
He ate them until they were shaking, until their thighs clamped around his ears and their synchronized whimpers filled the tiny room. Then he rose, shedding his pants.
Tonight he wanted something special.
"Hold each other," he ordered.
The twins turned, arms around one another, kissing with soft, confused need. Saeyama positioned himself behind Yuki, lifting her top leg, and pushed in slowly. She cried out into her sister's mouth.
He fucked Yuki with long, deep strokes while Yumi reached beneath to rub her sister's clit, tears of overwhelmed pleasure on both their faces. Then he pulled out, slick with Yuki, and slid into Yumi without pause. Same heat, same impossible tightness, just angled differently.
Back and forth, again and again, until the girls were sobbing with it, bodies trembling on the edge.
"Feel it?" he growled, voice ragged. "Your trauma's pouring out. Every thrust pushes it farther away."
He sped up, the wet slap of skin echoing, until he couldn't tell whose moans were whose. When he came, he buried himself in Yumi and stayed there, pulsing, flooding her while Yuki kissed her sister's tears and stroked her hair.
After, he lay between them on the narrow floor, their heads on his chest, his arms possessive around two fragile waists.
"Tomorrow," he said, tracing lazy circles on their skin, "we'll try the bath. Water helps medicine go deeper."
The twins nodded against him, sleepy and trusting.
"Whatever you say, sensei," Yuki murmured.
"We don't ever want to hurt again," Yumi added.
Saeyama smiled in the dark.
Retirement, he decided, was the best thing that ever happened to him.
The Aizawa bathroom was barely big enough for one adult, let alone three. A narrow tub, cracked tiles, a single flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. Steam rose in thick clouds from the near-scalding water their mother had paid extra for.
Saeyama had made them fill it to the brim.
He sat in the tub first, back against the wall, knees bent, cock jutting up like a grotesque periscope above the waterline. The twins stood naked in the doorway, clutching each other, skin already pink from the heat.
"Come," he said softly. "Medicine works best when you're completely open."
Yumi went first. She stepped over the rim, water sloshing, and lowered herself onto his lap facing him. Her small breasts brushed his gray chest hair. Saeyama cupped her ass and guided her down, slow, merciless, until every inch of him disappeared inside her. She gasped, forehead dropping to his shoulder.
Yuki hovered, unsure.
"Behind your sister," he ordered. "Press close."
Yuki obeyed, sliding in until her chest was flush against Yumi's back. The three of them fit only because the twins were so slight. Saeyama's arms circled both, one hand spreading Yumi's cheeks, the other reaching around to tease Yuki's untouched rear entrance.
"Today we heal every part," he whispered. "Even the places those boys never touched."
Yumi whimpered as he began to move, slow rolls of his hips that made water slap against porcelain. Each thrust pushed her against Yuki, who trembled, feeling her sister's body rock between them.
Saeyama's finger, slick with soap, pressed into Yuki from behind. She squeaked, then melted as he crooked it gently.
"Relax… let sensei in everywhere. Trauma hides in the smallest places."
Minutes blurred. Water cooled, then reheated when he made them add more from the showerhead. He took turns, lifting Yumi off his cock and sliding into Yuki from behind while Yumi straddled his thigh, rubbing herself desperately against the coarse hair there.
Their cries echoed off the tiles, high and broken and identical.
When he finally stood, water cascading off his belly, he bent both girls over the tub's edge side by side. Twin asses raised, dripping, offered.
He entered Yuki first, one hand on her hip, the other reaching under to stroke Yumi in perfect rhythm. Then switched. Again. Again. Until the girls were sobbing into each other's shoulders, knees buckling.
"Almost done," he grunted. "One last dose, together."
He pulled them both upright, pressed chest-to-back-to-chest again, and lifted Yuki slightly so that he could slide into her while his fingers worked inside Yumi. The angle was awkward, obscene, perfect.
They came like that, all three at once: Yuki clenching around his cock, Yumi around his fingers, Saeyama roaring as he emptied himself deep inside Yuki, letting it overflow and run down her thighs in thick white streams that mixed with the bathwater.
Silence afterward, except for panting and the slow drip from the faucet.
He washed them gently then, like a father would, except no father's hands lingered so long between their legs, or traced their swollen lips with such satisfaction.
When they stepped out, he wrapped them in a single towel too small for three bodies, hugging them close.
"Tomorrow," he said, kissing each damp forehead, "we'll try the bedroom. The futon is bigger. We can stay all night."
The twins, flushed and boneless, only nodded.
They no longer flinched when he touched them.
They no longer remembered the bullies' names.
All they knew now was the shape of sensei's medicine, and how empty they felt when it wasn't inside them.
Night settled over the apartment like a heavy quilt. Their mother had phoned: another double shift, home after sunrise. The twins relayed the message with shy, conspiratorial smiles.
Saeyama wasted no time.
He had them lay the spare futon in the six-mat bedroom, the one they usually shared because nightmares still came when they slept apart. Tonight the nightmares would have no room.
He undressed slowly, letting them watch. The old man's body was ridiculous: sagging breasts, liver spots, a belly that hung over his half-hard cock like rising dough. Yet the twins' eyes followed every movement with something between fear and hunger.
"Take your clothes off too," he said. "Everything. I want to see how well you're healing."
They peeled away the oversized t-shirts. Moonlight through the window painted silver across identical collarbones, identical small breasts with nipples already stiff, identical smooth mounds still faintly swollen from the bath.
Saeyama knelt between them on the futon and pushed them down gently, side by side on their backs.
"Tonight," he murmured, "we finish the treatment. After this, no bad dreams will ever find you again."
He started slow: kissing their mouths one after the other, tasting toothpaste and nervous breath, then down their throats, sucking faint pink marks that would bloom by morning. He spent a long time on their breasts, licking, biting, until both girls were arching and begging in tiny broken voices.
Only then did he spread their legs wide, hooking each slender thigh over his shoulders so they lay open like a book he intended to read aloud.
He entered Yumi first, one long thrust that made her back bow off the futon. While he moved inside her, he lowered his mouth to Yuki and licked in perfect counter-rhythm: slow drag in, slow drag out, tongue flicking her clit each time he bottomed out in her sister.
The twins held hands above their heads, knuckles white, identical moans rising and falling like a duet.
He switched.
Yuki now wrapped tight around his cock, Yumi shivering under his tongue. Their free hands found each other's breasts, pinching, soothing, mirroring what he did to them.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Sweat cooled, then reheated. He turned them over, took them from behind while they kissed each other over one shoulder, then the other. He pulled their hair, gentle at first, then harder when he saw how their eyes fluttered half-closed in surrender.
At some point he laid on his back and made them ride him together: Yumi facing him, Yuki facing away, both impaled on the same rigid pole, taking turns sinking down while the other waited, trembling, kissing whichever mouth was closest.
He never let them come until he was ready.
When the edge finally loomed, he arranged them carefully: both on their backs again, legs intertwined so their slick folds pressed together. He knelt above, stroking himself with one hand while the other plunged two fingers into each of them, curling, scissoring, until their hips bucked in frantic unison.
"Look at me," he commanded hoarsely.
Four glossy black eyes locked on his.
"This is the last of it," he said. "All the fear, all the shame: I'm pulling it out of you right now."
He came with a guttural groan, painting their bellies and breasts in thick, obscene stripes that connected them like a bridge. The sight sent the twins over: they cried out together, bodies seizing, thighs clamping around his wrists as they shook through the strongest climax he'd wrung from them yet.
Afterward, he cleaned them with his tongue, slow and reverent, licking every drop from their skin until they were trembling again with overstimulation.
Then he pulled the summer quilt over all three of them, his heavy arms around their waists, their heads tucked under his chin.
In the dark, Yuki whispered, "Sensei… we don't feel empty anymore."
Yumi pressed closer. "Stay until morning. Please."
Saeyama smiled against their hair, inhaling the scent of sex and cheap shampoo.
"Of course," he said. "Treatment isn't finished until the patient can sleep without fear."
Outside, cicadas droned. Inside, three bodies breathed in slow, matching rhythm.
The twins fell asleep first, fingers laced across his chest.
Saeyama lay awake a little longer, listening to their soft snores, feeling the warm clutch of young skin against his own sagging flesh.
Retirement, he thought again, was infinitely better than teaching.
And tomorrow, he decided, he would teach them something new: how good it feels to wake up with sensei already inside them.
The course of treatment, after all, had only just begun.
The first gray of dawn leaked through the paper shōji. Saeyama woke to the sensation of two small hands tentatively exploring his morning erection—one shy, one bolder.
Yumi's fingers circled the base while Yuki traced the ridge beneath the head, both girls pretending to still be asleep, cheeks burning.
He let them play for a minute, savoring the clumsy worship, then rolled onto his back and stretched like a satisfied cat.
"Time for your morning medicine," he rasped, voice thick with sleep and lust.
The twins blinked up at him, hair tousled, lips swollen from the night before. They no longer asked what that meant. They simply moved.
Yuki crawled between his legs first, lowering her mouth with the hesitant eagerness of a student desperate for extra credit. Her tongue was soft, uncertain, but the sight of her identical face bobbing on his cock while Yumi watched, biting her lip, was almost enough to finish him right there.
He tangled fingers in Yuki's hair and guided her deeper until she gagged prettily, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Then he pulled her off and beckoned Yumi.
They took turns like that, slow and reverent, passing his cock back and forth between their mouths, kissing each other around the head when their lips met in the middle. Saliva and precome strung between their tongues in glistening threads.
When he was close (too close), he stopped them.
"Not yet."
He arranged them on their sides, facing each other, legs scissored so their slick folds pressed together again. Then he knelt behind Yuki and slid into her from behind in one smooth thrust. She cried out into her sister's mouth.
He fucked her steadily, hips slapping against her small ass, while Yumi reached down to rub both their clits in frantic circles. Each thrust pushed Yuki's mound harder against Yumi's, grinding them together in wet, filthy friction.
Minutes later he pulled out and entered Yumi the same way, never breaking rhythm. Back and forth, faster, harder, until the room filled with the wet sounds of sex and the twins' high, desperate keening.
"Feel it?" he growled, teeth grazing Yuki's shoulder as he pounded into Yumi. "Every morning from now on. This is how you start the day: full of sensei's medicine. No room for anything else."
They nodded frantically, tears of overwhelm on their lashes.
He made them come first—one, two, three shuddering waves that left them limp and sobbing into each other's necks. Only then did he let himself go, pulling out at the last second to paint both their bellies and breasts again in long, thick ropes that pooled in the hollows between them.
They lay panting, sticky, trembling.
Saeyama kissed each forehead, tasting salt.
"Good girls. Now let's shower. You have school today, and sensei needs to pack."
The twins froze.
"P-pack?" Yumi whispered.
He smiled, lazy and cruel.
"I'm moving in. Your mother agreed last night when I called. Said two growing girls need a responsible adult around. She starts night shifts permanently next week."
Their eyes went wide (shock, then something that looked disturbingly like relief).
Yuki's voice was barely audible. "So… you'll be here every morning?"
"Every morning," he confirmed, rolling Yumi's nipple between thumb and forefinger until she whimpered. "Every evening. Every time you feel even a little bit scared. That's what proper treatment requires."
Yumi hid her face against his chest. "We'll be good," she promised into his skin.
"We'll take all the medicine you give us," Yuki added, voice trembling with something that was no longer fear.
Saeyama closed his eyes, arms tightening around his new, permanent patients.
Outside, the sun rose fully over the city, indifferent and bright.
Inside the tiny apartment, the course of treatment stretched out ahead of them (endless, thorough, and very, very deep).
And the twins, for the first time in years, were not afraid of what the day would bring.
They knew exactly what was coming.
They were already wet for it.
Summer bled into autumn. The cicadas died. The ginkgo trees along the river turned gold and dropped their stinking fruit.
Saeyama never left.
Their mother, exhausted by double shifts and pachinko debts, signed the papers without reading them. A quiet registry-office wedding in October (just the four of them, the twins in matching cream dresses, Saeyama in a cheap gray suit that strained at the belly). The clerk never asked why both brides were only eighteen, or why they clung to the groom's arms like drowning girls.
The apartment grew crowded with his things: yellowed anatomy textbooks, a locked cabinet of "supplements," a new king-size mattress that took up the entire bedroom. The twins' school uniforms hung in the closet beside his old teacher's slacks. Their mother moved to the couch, then to a friend's place, then simply stopped coming home.
Every morning began the same way.
Saeyama woke to two warm mouths already working in tandem, soft tongues sliding over him like they were sharing candy. He would choose (one to ride his face, one to ride his cock) until the sun climbed high enough to paint stripes across their tangled bodies. Then he'd send them off to their final year of high school with come still drying between their thighs and gentle reminders to "keep the medicine inside all day."
They obeyed. They always obeyed now.
Evenings were for review sessions. He sat at the low table correcting their math homework while they knelt beneath it, taking turns warming him with their mouths. When they got a perfect score, he rewarded them on the mattress (slow, worshipful fucking until they cried from gratitude). When they didn't, he bent them over his knee first, spanking the mistakes out of them until their asses glowed and they begged to be filled again.
Winter came. Graduation loomed.
On the last day of school, the twins came home with their diplomas clutched to their chests like shields. Saeyama was waiting in the genkan, naked except for the red tie he'd worn when he was still "sensei."
"No more uniforms," he said, voice thick. "No more pretending."
They dropped their bags and ran to him.
That night he took his time (hours, until the neighbors banged on the walls and gave up). He had them on their backs, legs over his shoulders, then on their knees, then pressed chest-to-chest so he could watch their identical faces break apart together when he finally spent himself inside first one, then the other, never pulling out long enough for them to feel empty.
Afterward, they lay in the dark, his arms heavy across both their waists.
Yumi's voice was soft, almost shy. "What happens now, husband?"
Yuki traced the wedding band on his finger (simple gold, bought with their mother's final paycheck). "Will you still… heal us every day?"
Saeyama chuckled, low and satisfied, pulling them closer until their bellies pressed warm against his spent cock.
"Every single day," he promised. "Morning dose, evening dose, midnight if you wake up scared. You're mine to take care of now. Forever."
The twins smiled (identical, serene, utterly unafraid).
Outside, snow began to fall, soft and soundless.
Inside, three heartbeats settled into the same slow rhythm.
The treatment was complete.
The patients were cured.
And the old perv (now husband, now father of the house) finally had everything he ever wanted:
Two perfect, identical girls who would never, ever say no.
The End.